Page 1 of Untruly With You

1

LAINE

I wantto enjoy every nugget of delightful chaos that life has to offer.

My first—and only—ex saw that in a much less idyllic light.

“I can’t keep watching you zig-zag around without a destination,” he once told me.

I looked up at the road signs, double-checking myself. I never got lost in the city. Sure enough, we were going down Houston Street as planned. “I thought we were headed to Lombardi's for lunch?”

He threw his hands up, halting in the midday sidewalk traffic. Like true New Yorkers, those around just rushed by us like a stream along a jutting rock. “I don’t mean it literally.”

“So, we aren’t getting pizza?”

“No. We aren’t getting pizza.”

I crossed my arms over my growling stomach. “What destination do youwant, then? Sushi?”

“Laine.” He said my name with so much weight, I prepared myself for the oncoming monologue. Then thosebig blue eyes peered into mine, glistening on demand, in search of connection. He was a Tisch student through and through, never one to avoid the dramatics. “I need a destination, a commitment. I can't keep up with the constant uncertainty of our journey. It's like being on a rollercoaster without knowing when it will stop.”

“Is this about the movie thing?”

“No,” he huffed. “It’s about everything.”

I got pizza alone that day.

I haven’t learnedwhatever lesson he was trying to teach me. That much is clear.

My finger hovers over the trackpad of my laptop for no more than two seconds before I press down, the “Drop Class” text highlighted in yellow for a split second.

It’s not that I wasn’t enjoying the class; it’s just that I wanted to be sure I made the most out of my last elective at NYU. After all, the whole reason of life is to enjoy every little minute of it. Plus, my dad has been begging me to take up an interest in Shakespeare ever since I could read.

I have over an hour until class, but, as usual, it takes me twenty minutes to decide on an outfit, ten minutes to pick the right music for the commute, and five minutes to decide on the right shade of red lipstick. (For what it’s worth, I choose a hot-pink turtleneck and matching beanie, brown leather coat, oversized plaid scarf, the new Harry Styles album, and a classic scarlet shade that makes my black bob hairstyle look all the more French.)

My phone buzzes as I lock my door behind me, and I find my twenty-odd group chats piling up endlessly.

Once on the street, I race across the February slush and make it onto the A train just before the doors close. As wepass through each station, I tap my foot against the floor, trying to will the train to go faster. Even Harry Style’s smooth, sweet voice serenading me through my headphones isn’t soothing me today. When the train finally arrives at the West Fourth Street station, I sprint out of the turnstiles and up the escalators.

The lunch traffic is already in full force. People are rushing from one side of the street to the other while honking cabs and buses zoom past them. I weave in and out of pesky tourists that don't seem to understand why everyone else is in such a hurry. As I move, the cold air bites my nose and dries my eyes. When I get to the last block of my commute, my eyes begin watering. I wipe them, smudging eyeliner and mascara on my fingers.

Unlike most other colleges, NYU doesn’t have a campus to itself. Instead, a collection of buildings houses NYU’s classes. Thankfully, because I’ve been working on my bachelor’s degree for six years—and have joined (and dropped out of)manyclasses and social groups in that time—I know most of the university by heart. I find my building easily, running under the ever-present scaffolding along the street to get there.

Once inside, the elevator draws me toward it like a magnet. It’s already full of students, but I squeeze into the pack, hunching my shoulders and ignoring the dirty looks thrown my way.

“Hey, Laine!” a girl says from the back of the elevator.

I vaguely remember her from the acting class I took as a freshman. And though I can’t remember her name, I wave back at her as if we’re best friends.

I check my watch. Seven minutes past noon.

When the elevator finally arrives at my floor, I shove into the crowded hallway and run to the door to my lecture hall, slamming it open without wasting a second. It sounds with aloud clang, and all eyes in the room fall on me. A few students snicker, and I brush my bangs into place. I wipe at the mascara under my eyes, trying to appear at least halfway presentable.

The professor stands at the front of the small room, wearing a stern expression that’s exaggerated by his very Eugene-Levy-esque eyebrows. “I hope you have an excellent reason you’ve come to interrupt our class?”

I clear my throat and steady my adrenaline-laced breaths before responding. “I joined your class this morning, taking the last spot, I believe.” Despite the fact that I was able to add the class to my schedule, a quick scan of the room tells me that there isn’t a seat left—not one.

“We’re two weeks into the semester,” he says, turning back to the projected slide behind him—Cultural Context ofThe Tempest. “You’re two weeks too late. And not to mention,” he pauses, checking his watch, “seven minutes late today.”

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